Image: Amy Loeffler

I was introduced to compound butter during family outings to Sunday brunch in the basement of the Smithsonian Castle. On special Sundays we would all pile into our mammoth 1977 baby blue Ford LTD station wagon (pre-wood paneling of the country squire model) and head into the city from Alexandria.

Sure there was a roast station, a waffle station and the all important dessert station.

But out of the attention-getting stations, I remember most vividly the bread baskets and the butter that flanked them.

There was there regular whipped butter at which I marveled how the texture allowed the butter fat to dance cooly on my tongue and coat the inside of my mouth.  Could I do this at home I dared to dream? My pre-teen self was awed by what seemed like such an extraordinary amount of culinary detail that even the butter would be elevated to heights of exocitism like “honey” and “strawberry.”

Culinarily speaking we are light years away from 1977. We are so food aware now that I think even the term “rate of iterative change” not only applies  to computers, iPhones, and technology in general, but culinary know-how as well.

Compound butter has evolved too, but it’s still an efficient way to use up herbs you probably already have on hand from the Thanksgiving feast. And, yes, will even make you feel as fancy as a 12-year-old being allowed to gorge on pastries from the dessert station.

I made some simple recipes with things you may already have on hand from cooks101.com and bohemainrevolution.com The cranberry was my own concoction.

Smoked Paprika Butter from 101cookbooks.com

4 tablespoons unsalted organic butter, room temperature
1 – 1 1/2 teaspoons smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon fine grain sea salt

Cranberry Butter

(If you made your own sauce, just spoon it in there.)

4 tablespoons unsalted organic butter, room temperature
1 tablespoon leftover cranberry sauce
A few scrapings of nutmeg from a grater
1 teaspoon lemon juice

Lemon Tarragon Butter

Lemon Tarragon Butter
4 tablespoons unsalted organic butter, room temperature
1 tablespoon tarragon
2 teaspoons lemon juice to taste
salt to taste

Image: Lindsay Nixon/BenBella Books

I’ve been wrestling a lot with career path decisions lately, so when I finally caught up with cookbook author and deliberate life-liver, Lindsay Nixon (aka the Happy Herbivore), I found her recipes, and unapologetic nonconformity, intriguing.

She speaks as matter-of-factly on her blog about the importance of nurturing the most minuscule, seedling-sized dream on the path to acheiving self-fulfillment as she does about her job as a vegan chef.

But sometimes overcoming the barriers to a plant-based, meatless meal are as elusive as the search for eternal happiness itself. For example, just for kicks, let’s see a show of hands. How many carnivores out there find themselves uninspired and reticent to set foot in the kitchen even after they’ve committed to dipping their toes in the vegan pool to tackle a recipe? Funny how little things pop up on the “to-do” list like eight loads of laundry when “make banana flower skillet” is tops. Do we even know what banana flowers are supposed to taste like?
Somehow cooking becomes more of an obligation instead of an escape when the familiarity is gone.  Given the ambiguity would-be vegan chefs face in the kitchen, it’s not shocking that the ability to cook hearty, and throaty “mmm”-inducing dishes that ignite your pleasure centers like a vintage Lite-Brite board seems out of reach for the uninitiated, vegan or not.

According to Nixon, however, cooking vegan meals can be a simple, and, yes, pleasurable, affair.

Said Nixon via email,”I find most vegan cookbooks call for weird, obscure ingredients and involve complex methods that take hours to prepare. I think meat-eaters, and even vegheads, can be easily put off by that.”

Lindsay Nixon, aka The Happy Herbivore. Image: Lindsay Nixon/BenBella Books

Plant-based eating does not have to be a vision quest for esoteric ingredients or a frustrating exercise in preparing enigmatic proteins that attempt to stand in for meat in stilted ways. (I recall some tofu tacos I whipped up in high school that looked like they could have been the main course from a low-end Mexican take-out restaurant. If that restaurant were on Mars.  And that restaurant served space colonists. Space colonists who thought an anemic plate of pasty, white mush covered in a mysterious sauce the color of the burnt orange Martian landscape looked satisfying after that interminable light-speed journey from Earth.)

Nixon’s first cookbook, The Happy Herbivore, is in fact less like a “vegan” cookbook, and more like a tome for everyday cooking that just happens to be populated with plant-based recipes. And whether you’re a militant herbivore, or a just trying on vegetarianism for size at snack time, this book is a handy reference guide for go-to entrees, side dishes, and desserts.

“The Happy Herbivore Cookbook, tells the story of my life through recipes and food. The food of my family’s roots, my husband’s, the places I’ve been, it all comes alive in my recipes,” said Nixon. (No doubt Nixon’s cornbread recipe (below) is a product of serious time spent below the Mason-Dixon Line).

Thanksgiving is just around the corner and certainly a spigot of traditional holiday recipes will gush forth in print and on the Web to reach riot control force in the next week (I actually just received the Thanksgiving issue of Bon Appetit). Even just a few vegan side dishes are a no-fuss and de riguer way to make up for the cutesy blob of can-shaped cranberry sauce that might be present at your table (we know, it’s purely for nostalgia’s sake, right?). Also, take a gander at Lindsay’s pumpkin and sage pasta dish that was recently featured in the New York Times, or spare the bird and ponder an entire vegan Thanksgiving with the HH’s recommendations.

Even better, whip up a batch of cornbread and red lentil dal right now while you ponder living a life fulfilled (recipes below).

Go on now, time’s a wasting. Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think. (Seriously, self-actualization aside, it is almost lunchtime).

Cornbread (serves 6) - This is my favorite cornbread recipe. It’s quick and simple — the kind of recipe you can whip up at any time because you always have the ingredients on hand.-L. Nixon

1 c cornmeal
1 c whole wheat pastry flour
1 tbsp baking powder
1/2 tsp fine salt
1 cup non-dairy milk (such as fat-free soymilk)
1/4 cup unsweetened applesauce
1/4 cup pure maple syrup
2 tbsp raw sugar (optional)

Preheat oven to 400F. Whisk cornmeal, flour, baking powder and salt together in a large bowl. Add non-dairy milk, applesauce, maple syrup and sugar, if using, on top. Using a spatula, stir until just combined. Pour batter into a nonstick shallow 9″ pie dish, or other oven-safe dish. Bake for approximately 20 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean.

Red Lentil Dal (serves 4) - Dals are essentially thick stews made with lentils and traditional Indian spices. This dal is easy, delicious and cheap. Make it once and it will never leave your regular rotation, I promise.-L. Nixon

1 small onion, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tsp turmeric
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp paprika
1 tbsp ground ginger
1/2 c dried red lentils
2 c vegetable broth
1 tomato, chopped (save juices)
3 ounces tomato paste (5 tbsp)
1 tbsp ground coriander
2 tsp garam masala
salt, pepper, cayenne to taste

Line a medium pot with 1/4 cup of water and cook onions and garlic until translucent. Add turmeric, cumin, paprika, and ginger, and cook for another for another 2 minutes, adding water if necessary to prevent sticking and burning. Add lentils, broth, tomato, tomato paste, and coriander, stirring to combine. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low and simmer for 15 minutes or until lentils are cooked and orange-ish. Add garam masala, stirring to combine, and let rest for 5 minutes. Add salt, pepper and cayenne to taste.

Note: if tomatoes are out of season, use 1/4 cup tomato sauce or two peeled canned tomatoes.

Coffee beans mid-roast. Image: Aliana Ramos

Seattle. Portland. Brooklyn. San Francisco.

All are temples of revered urban coffee culture and conjure images of quirky, rough-around-the-edges, artisanal caffeine-centric hang-outs; the kind of places where you could talk for hours with other java-heads about the black gold in your cup.

But look out. South of the Mason-Dixon line there’s a coffee revolution that’s been quietly fermenting and gaining steam (pun intended). Let’s just say if you wanna know what the fighetti (hipster) italiani are drinking but can’t make it to Rome before the end of the year, go South, coffee drinkers.

What’s causing this directional change in the aromatic winds? One company in particular, the Muddy Dog Roasting Company, (recently named one of the 17 fastest growing coffee companies in the United States by CNNMoney) is causing the caffeine compass to point decidedly Southward.

Java-head Jim Pellegrini, roastmaster and owner with his wife Debbie, demonstrate that coffee culture born of renovated tobacco barns (or in Pellegrini’s case, industrial park-like office space in Morrisville, N.C.), instead of perpetual drizzle is capable of rivaling more traditional temples of roasting religion.

I caught up with Pellegrini and his coffee a couple of Saturdays ago on a bright fall day amidst an eclectic and somewhat hodgepodge group of hyperlocals hawking everything from locally sourced produce (as in bitter greens grown-50-feet-away-in-the-backyard-of-the-market local), cheesecakes, chocolate, even Bloody Marys, at the Rebus Works farmers market in Raleigh.

Pellegrini’s array of nut-brown offerings were displayed in full force. But one in particular caught my attention.

Give me your, dirty your gritty, your fighetti
Though Pellegrini will gush about any of his blends and single batch coffees, among the most intriguing for the palate and the nose is the current iteration of his modern espresso; the somewhat recently unveiled Trastavere.  And it’s got an enticing backstory.

For those of you haven’t poked around Rome in the last, oh five years or so, Trastavere is a Roman neighborhood located on the banks of the Tiber River. A beautiful people-place populated by what Italians might call fighetti (translated as “hipsters”, but interestingly enough I saw the definition of the word in Spanish “pijo/a” which I was already familiar with as being, I dunno, not so much Jack White as Paris Hilton).

“I call it the Durham of Rome,” says Pellegrini. “All the cool kids are there, but at the same time it’s still a little dirty and a little seedy.”

Hipsters aside, what Pellegrini detected on a recent summer trip to the madre patria was that the coffee was different. “Not better. not worse. Just different,” he says on his blog.

Enter the Liberica bean: a primary component in Pellegrini’s Trastavere, his Contemporary Roman Espresso blend. Here’s the kicker: Pellegrini has the ONLY allotment of these beans in the entire United States. So, to paraphrase Dave Chapelle in his send up of the glories of working a fast food job, you gots to go through Pellegrini if you want that Italian, skinny jeans, nerd glasses feeling.

Back to the bean itself, some sleuthing on Pellegrini’s part revealed that Italian coffee giant Lavazza had integrated vertically into agriculture in India and hence began sourcing its coffee beans from more tropical climes in the Southasian nation.  That source change manifested itself in Pellegrini’s coffee cup in heady aromas of spice, sandalwood, almond and hints of blueberries. A very different roast than what he remembered from his last caffeine-inspired sojourn to Italy five years ago.

And tasting Trastavere last Saturday was indeed a treat for me. Not only because of Pellegrini’s enthusiasm and knowledge about the product, but because I was sampling something that few coffee drinkers have experienced; the flavor profile imparted by the sandalwood notes was part lounging in the sun and being cooled by the radiant and refreshing temps of a boutique hotel’s crystalline waters while an elephant meanders by (hey, it’s my fantasy), and part café culture. As in reading a book at an outdoor café with a scarf and a jacket on and happy to be oblivious while people chit-chat around you in chic foreign tongues.  (Yeah, describes the early part of my junior-year-abroad in Madrid before I could understand the smack people were talking.)

Trastavere is not a “traditional” espresso blend, and will most likely change over time. But as Pellegrini discovered this summer, tradition is a word that isn’t above some tweaking, even among die-hard, Italian caffeine connoisseurs.  “It’s not the coffee that’s the tradition. It’s the coffee ritual that’s the tradition. The coffee is the artifact.”

Green Beans
Like a lot of smaller businesses, sustainability is a priority for Pellegrini and Muddy Dog, and because of their size, they have the ability to touch many more aspects of the business with green technologies.

Pellegrini himself grew up on a farm where his father practiced organic farming when it was completely gauche and meant, “puny, pest-ridden vegetables.” His respect for farming has also transferred itself to the coffee. “The only person who can make your coffee better is the farmer. Everyone else just screws it up,” says Pellegrini.

More to the point though, his commitment to sustainability stems from two fundamental tenets: “he’s got kids, and he’s human.”  But for a small businessperson making simple assertions about wanting to be green because of human commonality can be costly when the, er, beans hit the proverbial roaster. Muddy Dog Roasting Company’s roaster produces zero carbon emissions. It’s a pricey badge of honor that he and his wife are proud to brandish for a low carbon footprint, but the reality is many small businesses probably couldn’t shoulder the $50,000 increase in expenses. (According to Pellegrini a regular commercial roaster retails for about $30,000 dollars. The roaster he uses at Muddy Dog cost about $80,000.)

Sustainability can be directly measured in carbon emissions, but Pellegrini’s also a big believer in the human connection with suppliers, and also ironically the oft-maligned middle man, who is in reality a very large part of the reason why Muddy Dog Roasting Company can exist at all.

“I actually value my relationship with importers a lot,” he says. “What we need is more transparency not more bureaucracy,” he says of the coffee supply chain.

Companies the size of Muddy Dog rely on making associations with suppliers who have existing relationships with importers.  Pellegrini could not possibly run a business this size of Muddy Dog and expect huge container ships to worry about moving small lots of coffee from the many places he sources his product to Morrisville, N.C. where he’s located.

Says Pellegrini, “When there are only two bags in the whole world, I can make hay with that.”

And what about fair trade? It’s one of the most polemic issues regarding the production of coffee or chocolate. Pellegrini finds Fair Trade labeling a little wonky.  While he has “Fair Trade “coffees, he also sells products that are, “not fair trade-certified, but are fairly traded.” Wrestle with that one, java-heads. In the coffee-sphere the labeling takes precedence, and sometimes wrongly so.

Good thing we have a roastmaster to guide us through the maze of products out there, and point us in the direction of quality coffees that are as unique as the taste of his Trastavere blend.

“I think the reason people buy coffee from a guy like me is that I should be able to tell you everything about it.”

First can we please dispense with the word “foodie”?  At last year’s Symposium for Professional Food Writers at the Greenbrier both attendees and panelists bristled at this term and the inadequacies of the word in describing those who make food writing their profession. (I won’t describe here and now why I personally find this term irksome, but referring to Anthony Bourdain, Michael Pollan and others as “foodies” is a little akin to calling Gandhi a “community organizer.” I’m not saying food writers should be revered in the same way that Gandhi is, I’m just pointing out that the term is not an apt description). Why? “Foodie” carries with it connotations of someone who is ignorant of the responsibility of having a public platform to write about food; it conjures images of self-proclaimed bloggers who “just like to eat,” and I wouldn’t put any of the aformentioned individuals in these categories.

The subtext of Myers’ article is the real issue here and that subtext is the fact that he is a vegan; and also how annoying he finds both foodie and food culture’s propensity to be sanctimonious, including the foodie morality that exalts the pleasures of food above all else, even at the, and especially, the expense of, animal suffering.  He’s even taken the time to read most of the Best Food Writing Anthology of 2010 and a few assorted other tomes on food writing to prove his point. If his diatribe was meant to illuminate the virtues of not eating meat (one of them being that you can give yourself the go ahead to be self-righteous), his article accomplishes little in this regard. My own personal reference point: when I was in high school I volunteered for an animal rights organization in Alexandria, Va. and most of the staff there was vegetarian. Not one of them ever made attempts to convert me to the Tofu Side. Their weapon was to lead by quiet example. Even Myers’ defender and co-contributor to The Atlantic James McWilliams’ argument for eschewing pleasures of the flesh makes a more poignant, powerful and also timely case for vegetarianism. Myers’ argument just tends to be a little too heavy on the personal grudge side (Fess up, Bourdain. What did you do?!)

“The Next Floor”: A shortfilm about real gluttons and no doubt plucked from Myers’ subconscious. Video: Youtube

The very people Myers lambasts (chefs, restaurateurs and food writers) for reducing the ephemeral elegance of, say a tantalizing bearnaise sauce, to mere fetishism are in fact the very ones responsible for stirring a great awakening of concerns related to animal welfare, as well as environmental and human health regarding food consumption and production.  These are in fact the very people that Myers really needs to co-opt. What he does not seem to realize is that, while yes, in our current zeitgeist there is a hyper-awareness about food, more importantly people like Anthony Bourdain and Michael Pollan also have the ability to promote the incremental change needed to propel society at large towards a more enlightened view of comestibles. It only stands to reason that as the public at large becomes more preoccupied with food as spectacle, this interest will serve as a gateway towards nutritional health and environmental stewardship, and ultimately concern will surely blossom into advocacy for animals in general. This certainly isn’t going to happen overnight, and it won’t change with one article. But it’s not difficult to imagine a not too distant future where the trend to decrease meat consumption leads to a trend to decreased farming of animals, and ergo the horrors of factory farming.  It’s a short leap from getting the public to care about how animals are treated when we raise them for food, to grappling in a collective way with insecurities surrounding the killing of animals for food.

The other aspect of this article that is as tired as a late 90s pop song (and also McWilliam’s response) is the age-old tactic of those who play the fetish card and fold their arms in smug victory as if to say,” ’nuff said” and then drag out Alice Waters across the food debate stage as well as the associated Slow Food movement to illustrate their point about the snobby nature of foodies.  Myers writes this about Water’s mecca of food culture, Chez Panisse, in his article:

“…grilled rack and loin of Magruder Ranch veal as a typical offering-which is environmentally sustainable only because so few people can afford it.”

This is such a hackneyed tactic on the part of Slow Food detractors like Myers. Primarily because Slow Food in its original Italian iteration actually was born of a leftist political movement in the mid-80s, and as led by Carlo Petrini its mission was to protect the environment and defend consumers, not a competition to see who can ingest the most rarified and expensive morsels. And speaking of rarified morsels, Myers mentions Tony Bourdain’s eating of seal, bats and guinea pig as an indictment of foodie immorality: “I’ve eaten raw seal, guinea pig and even bat, ” says Bourdain in his latest offering “Medium Raw.” But these aren’t examples of gluttony gone wild.  I can order guinea pig at the local Honduran eatery in my neighborhood any day of the week (it’s called cuy), and you can bet that the elite, foodie establishment (whoever that is) isn’t eating there. So, is Myers saying that meat is good enough for poor people but not for him? I would also hazard to guess that Tony Bourdain isn’t randomly ordering raw seal off the “animals-beaten-to-death-with-a-club” side of the menu. He probably ate seal because “No Reservations” was filming in a community where seal was common fare. Last I heard seal was *not* the daily special at any midtown Manhattan eatery. In this regard Myers is actually the one employing hyperbole here, or at the very least stretching the word the meaning of exotic to fit his own argument.

Here in D.C., where The Atlantic is housed, establishments like D.C. Central Kitchen are testament to the power of not only food , but food policy and have become a model of financial sustainability. I would submit the rise of empowering nonprofits like these is due in part to the increased hyper-awareness and “fetishization” of food that Myers loathes.  That’s to say nothing of our chefs who are unabashed proponents of sustainability: Rob Weland at Kimpton’s Poste (who incidentally attended the Terra Madre conference at the birthplace of Slow Food in the Piemonte last year), Cathal and Meshelle Armstrong at Restaurant Eve who painstakingly take the time to work with suppliers who care about the sustainability of the products they provide, as well José Andrés who has built a mini culinary empire in this city by espousing not only trendy molecular gastronomy, but also the use of sustainable ingredients.

People who really treasure food and breaking bread (or other assorted meat-based dishes) with others aren’t gluttons. They’re humans. It makes me wonder if Myers actually has warm blood pulsing through his veins or an anti-freeze-like substitute, because if he did he might understand that while food, is yes hopelessly fetishized in the milieu of our capitalist framework, it could not exist as the powerfully political tool it has become without the “annoying” food worship of the masses.

Houston, we have basil! Image: Amy Loeffler

There’s nothing like a global warming-induced extreme weather event such as the torrential downpour we had last night in the nation’s capital to mark the end of a season (or the world for that matter).

Despite the hellish commuting, I am actually glad that I live in the metropolitan-D.C. area. Sure, it’s questionable what they call “air” here in the summer time; it’s difficult to breathe D.C. air without donning a reverse still suit of the kind popularized in “Dune” and they might wear on Arrakis, but growing up and living in a gentrified swamp has been excellent training for handling the vagaries of an impending post-global warming meltdown. I for one am prepared for seismic events like hitting the sales at Nordstrom by traversing 3-95 to Pentagon City from Del Ray in a motorboat when either  1) torrential rains cause apocalyptic flooding and/or 2) the glaciers have all melted.

But I digress.

Seriously, it is in fact noticeably cooler today, and summer is about to be engulfed by frosty fall nights, which means bidding adieu to a few of my favorite summer things, basil and peaches.

I thought I would honor the end of summer with a simple little tip of the hat to basil in a recipe that uses up the remnants of this backyard herb in a walnut pesto mixture. Let me be clear. I am not a recipe writer, but pesto is about as easy to make as boiling water, so here goes. (I dare say recipes are for people who don’t really know how to cook. Ha! just kidding, all my recipe writer friends!).

For the record, I am not such an accomplished cook that I don’t need recipes, and in anticipation of what I am about to say next, please fasten yourselves to something fixed like a concrete light pole because the Earth may stop spinning, and it’s possible you will be flung across the room.  Yes, (gasp) it’s true, recipes are not “the gospel.”  Good recipes are guides, and good cooks know how to navigate them much like combining Rachel Ray’s “just eyeball it” attitude and the intellectual creativity of Michael Ruhlman’s Ratio concept. So, yes, even though Anthony Bourdain is in an exotic locale chomping on the innards of an endangered species right now and would hurl at the thought of Rach and Ruhlie being mentioned in the same sentence,  I will go so far as to invoke them together to demonstrate that really great cooks possess and need both of these abilities to intuit recipes. This recipe is simple enough that you can play with at as you like thus feeding your inner Rach or your inner Ruhlie.

End-of-the-World Walnut-Basil Pesto

• 1 cup basil leaves from the backyard (washed)
• 2 large cloves of garlic
• 1/2 cup freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano
• 1/3 walnuts
• 1/2 cup olive oil
• salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

1) Place basil and walnuts together in a food processor. Pulse together ingredients in a few short bursts.

2) Add the garlic and pulse a few more times. Slowly add the olive oil in a continuous stream into the food processor until the mixture starts to congeal and looks less chunky.  Add grated cheese and pulse until just mixed. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Voila! This makes enough pesto for about two people. Approximately. As Rach would say, just eyeball it.

Now about those peaches. Canning is a great way to preserve the succulent flesh of a perfectly ripe peach.

And I can’t think of any instance more deserving of the term comfort food than stooping over a nice jar of peach preserves in a post-nuclear winter bunker in a pair of Seven jeans. Mmmm…that’ll bring back the memories of some damn good summers.

Video: Youtube

Nobody’s going to dispute that the French do l’amour better than anyone, and this Día de San Valentin there is a heavy concentration of Gaullic happening at the National Gallery of Art’s new exhibit From Impressionism to Modernism: The Chester Dale Collection.

The current offering is a follow up to the National Gallery of Art’s exhibit, “The Art of Power”, a collection of finely huned knight-wear and their painterly renditions was hard to top. Not only was the exhibit chock full of stunning examples of metal-made regalia, but the Garden Café space in the Gallery was transformed into an outpost of haute Spanish cuisine with the help of D.C.’s adopted son from Asturias, José Andrés.

Though the Gallery has been partnering with local chefs since 2006, it was not until “The Art of Power” tapped the area’s most famous Spaniard that the synergy of the in-kind promotion concept blew up last year during record attendance of Andrés’ Garden Cafe España.

Surely José Andrés was a tough act to follow, but somehow they managed to best some of the dishes like the flaky crust of the chicken pastry and creamy flan from his buffet. How you say? A little friendly chef rivalry helped.

“[The café] really became suscceessful when José Andrés was here last summer,” says Executive Chef David Rogers of the National Gallery. “Now that we’ve reached that level of guest chef it was much easier to approach Michel [Richard]. I think there was alittle competition there,” he quipped in a recent interview.

Image: National Gallery of Art Chef Michel Richard poses with one of his favorite paintings.

While there may be a little friendly chef tet a tet going on, Michel is himself a frustrated painter, so involvement with the National Gallery of Art was pretty much a no-brainer.

“I remember when I was nine years old someone gave me a book, like a paint-by-numbers book, of Toulouse Lautrec and I fell in love with Impressionism.” Fortunately for us painting didn’t work out so well for Richard and he turned his interests to more culinary pursuits.

Image: The National Gallery of Art, Girl with a Watering Can, Auguste Renoir, 1893/94

While the menu has changed to reflect classic French cuisine, don’t expect new paintings at the exhibit, however. If you’re a D.C.ist you will no doubt experience fieldtrip flashbacks upon perusing works such as Renoir’s Girl with a Watering Can and Cassat’s The Boating Party. What’s fresh is the way in which the works are displayed; one of the more startling being the ethereal The Saltimbanques by Picasso and Manet’s The Old Musician facing off in one room of the exhibition. The two paintings are similar in their massive size, and theme but couldn’t be more different in form.

Like the art exhibit, you will see similar if not slightly French-tweaked items on the Garden Cafe Franςais menu. Richard and Executive David Rogers probably couldn’t deny the sheer tasty convenience of a charcuterie station (also present in Andrés’ rendition of the cafe menu), as well as dessert servings of chocolate mousse, which recall Andrés’ flan during the Art of Power.

Image National Gallery of Art Chicken Faux Gras and Jambon de Bayonne from the buffet.

Coq au vin graces the buffet board along with other classic salades such as endive and ratatouille. I personally enjoy my coq au vin with a bit more zing (read, wine) but the meat was tender and satisfying enough to lessen the stinging sensation from the outdoors on my wind-whipped body parts.

And Valentine’s Day is nothing if not a a day to celebrate the senses. Satisfy several of them this Sunday with your one-and-only over a feast for the eyes and the stomach.

–Amy